


You Used To Say

by LaurytheLatrator



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Military School, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurytheLatrator/pseuds/LaurytheLatrator
Summary: You used to say: Don't be angry,I finally understand whyEverything that you taught meGot twisted up, on the inside....Adam and Eric through winter holiday.





	You Used To Say

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Technically the characters are above the age of consent in Britain, but because they are 16/17, I want to be clear that I do mention them having sex but do not go into explicit detail.
> 
> The title and summary is a reference to a Front Bottom's song that reminds me of Adam.

 

The first day at Mountview is quiet. Anyone who speaks to him does so without expecting an answer beyond, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.” He’s told where to go and left on his own.

The walls are painted a sickly mint green, missing their chocolate chips, and bare. He’d never appreciated how colorful Moordale was. There’d been freedom everywhere, in clothes, hair, voices, if he’d bothered paying attention.

They sit him down and shave his head and shove a packet of neatly folded grey-green fatigues at his chest. They take his ‘personal effects’ and inform him they’ll be mailed back to his parents. Dad’ll probably burn them. In return he gets a plastic baggie with shampoo and body wash, toothbrush and toothpaste, and more directions.

The first time he gets reamed out he’s lingering in the shower, and suddenly one of the officers is barging in and berating him. It slides off his back and goes down the drain. Dad raised his voice so many times, he’s used to just taking it. Then the officer sees his dick and whistles and says, “Boy, all the cocksuckers are gonna be falling in line, huh?”

Already one shot of normalcy slips out of reach.

 

* * *

 

There should be nothing more normal than showing up at the Milburn’s saturday afternoon for a Smash Bros marathon, except that Eric is trembling with nerves in front of their door. Otis’ eager tread on the stairs has him steeling himself for a smile.

“Hey,” says Otis when he answers the door, “Come on in, I’ve got Walkers _and_ Monster Munch, and I was thinking we could order pizza, if you’re up for a full on acne breakout.”

He’s rehearsed this in the mirror. “Actually O, I need to talk to Jean for a sec.”

The way Otis twitches in confusion, he looks like Data from TNG, and Eric can see the synapses firing and cogs turning behind his eyes. “Yeah, of course. I, I can, get stuff ready, while you… Is everything ok? No, don’t answer that, if you wanted to tell me, you would, I’ll just—”

“Otis, breathe,” Eric commands, and his friend draws a long, slow breath. The specter of Eric’s birthday hasn’t fully dissipated. Moments like these, where they’re suddenly afraid to say the wrong thing, hadn’t happened before. Otis hunches his shoulders yet flashes a short, chagrined smile. Struggling, Eric tells him, “Is just a quick question, alright? I can’t really explain, but it would be weird if I talked about it with you, yeah?”

“No, I, that makes sense. Just like you couldn’t share every part of yourself with a teacher or parent, it’s unreasonable to expect or demand total—”

“You’re therapizing,” Eric interrupts again.

Pointing upstairs, Otis says, “I’ll just load Smash, come up whenever you feel like it.”

Dr. Milburn’s panelled office always felt a bit like a dragon’s den. It takes a knight’s courage to knock and enter when called.

“Eric, darling,” Jean greets him with happy surprise, “Is Otis out, I thought I heard—”

“No, yeah, I actually wanted to talk to you,” Behind his back, he wrings his hands, “If you’ve got a moment?”

Without hesitation Jean gestures to a chair, “Of course, Eric, I’m always here for you.”

The truth, slightly edited, spills out of him: a boy—man—guy at school that he always thought hated his guts, bullied him for years, all of a sudden might be into him, but before they could talk about it, the man—boy—guy is forced to leave, and Eric has no idea how to process it all. His rambling monologue ends with him floating, lighter than air.

In her gentle, coaxing voice, Jean begins, “I can certainly see how that would be confusing for you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like what you are wanting most from this situation is clarity, or perhaps even closure, and that these… circumstances that have separated you at a crucial time has caused you pain.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it exactly. It’s like, one minute I think one thing, the next he’s doing something else, and now I can’t even ask him what’s going on! Argh, it’s so frustrating!”

Jean hums and adjusts her glasses. “Eric, I have a question for you, and I don’t want you to answer right away. Setting aside your uncertainty of his feelings, what feelings, if any, do you have for this boy?” Eric blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it. “When you are young, you may feel you have limited opportunities for romantic connection, and your being gay would be an extenuating factor, but you must believe that you are not required to _like_ anyone simply because they express interest in you.” Express interest, Eric muses, isn’t what he’d call the best (and only) blowjob of his life. “If you convince yourself you reciprocate his possible feelings when this is not the case, the both of you will be placed in an unhappy position.” Fiddling with her glasses again, Jean says, “Regarding this aggression you mentioned, it does lead me to wonder whether pursuing this boy is the right decision for you.”

Leg bouncing nervously, Eric finds himself saying, “He’s really not… I get it, you know, he’s like, majorly repressed, and most of the time I’m like the opposite, so… We never got on well. Plus his daddy issues, are like, whoa. And if he’s secretly gay, or bi, or whatever...”

“While I value your capacity for empathy,” Jean insists, trotting out her mothering voice in place of the clinical one, “Understanding a person’s motivations does not equal excusing their behavior.”

“Yeah, I know, but…”  It’s impossible to explain the Adam he knows: fractions of a larger whole, made up of confrontations by his locker, locked gazes across the canteen, snatched conversations when Eric forgot to be intimidated and Adam wasn’t trying. “I think the only time I’ve seen him smile was when he was picking on me.”

This time it's Jean who opens her mouth and rethinks it. She settles for a fond, indulgent look, that feels far more knowing than Eric’d like.

 

* * *

 

It’s not _Full Metal Jacket_ , not really.

Instructors are fine. The cadet officers are the ones to avoid, who scream if you don’t call them sir or salute when they pass, who have the authority to give out demerits and demand you drop to the floor and give them fifty. He’d skipped around _Lord of the Flies_ enough to get to the pig bit and dash off a couple of lines about power corrupting or whatever. He gets it.

Everyday Adam’s jolted awake at 0600 by a fucking trumpet over the loudspeakers and hustles to be dressed and ready for first formation. By 0630 he’s eating refried beans on toast surrounded by chattering cadets, who obviously all made friends without him. 0730 he and the rest clean the barracks and bathrooms, like scrubbing shit from the shower drain is gonna teach them respect.

Adam’s a rat, new meat. He gets shoved purposely-on-accident constantly and given the worst jobs. He hasn’t gotten to the _school_ part yet, apparently the first three months are drill intensive. He’s done push ups, squats, lunges, lifted logs, and crawled on his elbows through mud. He’s aching and sore and would do anything for a smoke by the time he gets into bed at 2200, just to do the whole damn thing again the next day.

Weekends are different. Saturdays are spent in the field, running the track, playing basketball, or doing drills, all within the confines of the barbed wire fence. There’s the promise of tv time in the recreation room for three hours in the evening, but the remote is dispensed as a special privilege. No chance.

Sundays are quiet, there’s no required activity from 1000 to 1800. It breaks down just like Moordale; groups of friends hang out together and Adam hovers on the fringes. He’s not the biggest or toughest in here by a long-shot. His whole life Adam had an eye for picking out the weaklings, and while it’s all relative here, they do exist. He could pick off one of the gazelles and establish himself quickly as a lion not to be fucked with.

Except he can’t, because of Eric.

Thing is, Adam’s actually trying. If he does well, there’s a chance his dad’ll let him come home. If he comes home, he can see Eric. If he sees Eric, maybe he can finally understand some of the fucked up shit he’s been dwelling on since that day at detention. So to get all of that means keeping his nose clean, staying out of trouble, keeping invisible. He’s never gotten a chance to be invisible before, maybe he’ll be good at it.

He passes a cadet in the hall one Sunday, a reedy, beanstalk kind of kid that reminds him of Kyle or New Kid, who reeks of smoke, and Adam does an about-face.

“Hey, you,” He calls, reaching out in vain to tap the guy’s arm, “Stop, stop.”

The guy snaps, “Fuck off.”

“I’m gasping, c’mon,” Is the last thing he says before he gets punched in the face.

 

* * *

 

Aimee is sort of his friend now? It’s weird, ‘cause Maeve and Otis sort of made up, in that they’ll hang out if other people are there, but the clinic is in limbo. Jackson is on the outs with Maeve for reasons Eric certainly isn’t brave enough to ask after. And Otis is dating Ola, who’s just transferred in, and Aimee _loves_ Ola, and Maeve “loves” Ola. So when Aimee starts an actual study group slash hangout, it ends up being Aimee, her boyfriend Steve, Maeve, Ola, Otis, and Eric hanging on for the ride.

One night, after exam cramming, Aimee decides they’ll play spin the bottle. Otis opts out because he’s seen too much about oral infections at home. In spite of that really gross turn off, the rest of them agree with varying enthusiasm. Aimee cheats right away and makes it land on Steve, and Maeve tells her off for starting a game just for a pretense to snog her own boyfriend. Aimee claims there’s no point to spin the bottle if you don’t cheat. Maeve spins next and gets Ola and makes a face like she’s regretting her anti-cheating stance. Gamely, Ola leans across the circle and plants a firm kiss on Maeve’s lips. Otis has to excuse himself for a few minutes.

Steve gives Maeve a kiss on the cheek, and then it’s Eric’s turn. It spins… and lands on Steve.

“Er,” stutters Eric, glancing wide eyed between the extremely fit blonde hunk and his girlfriend, “I can spin again if you’d rather not.”

“Don’t be stupid, there’s no do overs,” Aimee declares, leaning in with a gleam of anticipation, “‘sides, guys kissing is kind of sexy, innit.” Maeve hits her shoulder.

Steve looks at him and, with grim determination, says, “It wouldn’t be fair to make the girls kiss if we won’t.”

Eric nods, “Yeah, okay.” Steve, gorgeous, built like a precarious brick house, leans in and closes his eyes. It’s dry, Steve needs chapstick, and all Eric can hear is the breathing of the three girls in the room. Five seconds later, it’s over, and everyone’s clapping. Aimee breaks the circle to climb into her blushing boyfriend’s lap. Eric’s right next to them so he hears her whisper:

“I know what I said, but I just realized how bad it’d be for my self-esteem if you were gay, do you want to go upstairs?” Laughing breathlessly, Steve agrees, and the party is effectively over.

He’s washing his face and applying moisturizer that night when all of a sudden Eric’s thinking about that kiss. It had meant… nothing. Absolutely nothing. For all the times he’d fantasized about snogging, he’d never imagined that it could feel so _ehh._ Weren’t they all supposed to be magical and breathtaking? How could it possibly just be, well, two mouths pressed against each other for a bit?

Of course that meant he was thinking about Adam, _again_. Everything after that first kiss with Adam had been a blur. Adam’s lips were gentle, his hand on Eric’s face was gentle, the pressure he used sucking on Eric’s stomach was gentle. They didn’t say a word, Eric couldn’t think of a single word in the English language, all he knew was to keep lying there, not to do anything that could make Adam stop.

And there was a moment, after he’d come, when he looked down, and Adam was just there, staring at him, as if they were in the halls or the canteen, like it was any other day. Eric’d never been able to read that thousand-yard stare, he only knew to avoid Adam’s attention in any way. But then, right then, there was nothing he wanted less. He wanted to reach in Adam’s jeans and see if he was hard too, wanted to jack that “above-average” penis he and the whole student body had seen, wanted to watch Adam’s eyes when he came, see if he finally stopped looking so miserable.

But Adam sighed, his breath cooling wet spots on Eric’s stomach, and sat up. Eric pulled down his shirt, and Adam went back to the macho-bullshit, and didn’t come at all.

 

* * *

 

Adam doesn’t throw punches much. He pushes, he wrestles, he’ll get right in someone’s face, but his knuckles are fairly clean. When he realized kids were afraid of him (cause he was the headmaster’s son, he was a freak, he flew into rages) he started working out regularly, and the bigger he got, the less he needed to follow through on hurting people to get what he wanted.

With a big black shiner on his ugly mug, he keeps quiet while the Sergeant screams at him, demanding to know who he was fighting. Well, Adam thinks but won’t say, no one else reported to the infirmary, so it can’t have been much of a fight. He gets detention, obviously, and extra drills every day that week.

He’s thinning a bit now, which doesn’t seem right, you’re not supposed to get smaller at bootcamp. But the shite food they serve them has trimmed baby fat he didn’t know he had. He’s lost some of the showier muscles in his forearms, but gained strength in his back and core. He’s got runner’s legs, and thinking of Aimee’s triangle-man makes him smirk.

He’s meant to be writing lines, like this is the Victorian age or something. _I will not start fights_. The cadet officer in charge is on a cell phone, a very special privilege. Adam could kill him for the damn thing. _I will not start fights_. There’s other cadets in detention as well, but they’re all spaced out among the desks so that they can hardly see each other from the corners of their eyes. All their pencils are scratching away for whatever crime they committed. _I will not start fights_.

Instead he writes…

 

> _Tromboner._
> 
> _Eric._
> 
> _Sorry._
> 
> _Shouldn’t have pushed you._
> 
> _Shouldn’t have taken your money._
> 
> _Shouldn’t have eaten your curly wurlys._
> 
> _Shouldn’t have stole your lunch._
> 
> _Your mum’s a good cook tho._
> 
> _Or your dad, whatever._
> 
> _Sorry about the music room._

 

He stops, pencil hovering over paper, until the cadet officer snaps, “Groff, no slacking.”

 

> _Not sorry about_
> 
> _sucking your cock._
> 
> _It was good._
> 
> _Not sorry for science class._
> 
> _I liked your eyes._
> 
> _The blue I mean._
> 
> _You look good in blue._
> 
> _Definitely not orange._

 

What was he saying that for? Eric had twats like Anwar to tell him he looked good, he didn’t need Adam’s fucking fashion tips.

 

> _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._
> 
> _I don’t understand shite except for_
> 
> _that I wish I wasn’t here I wish I was_
> 
> _back in the music room with you and_
> 
> _I could just tell you_

 

The cadet officer puts down the phone and stretches. “Alright, lads, turn ‘em in.” The other chairs screech as Adam stares down at his paper. “Groff, get—” Any other directive is cut off by Adam balling his paper up and sticking it in his mouth. The room is quiet as he chews, and when it’s wet and sticky enough, Adam forces it down his throat.

He hears, “Fucking freak,” muttered behind him.

“That’ll be another detention, then, Groff,” The officer tells him rather boredly, “Move out.”

 

* * *

 

They ride their bikes through leafy mulch as October nears its end, and Eric asks, “So whatchu wanna be for Halloween?”

“Halloween is a co-opted American holiday that has no cultural roots here and is only being encouraged for its consumerist—”

“Yeah alright, but what are you going as? You know everyone's gonna dress up, it'll be weird if you don't.”

“Yes, but I am weird, why change now?” Otis thoughtfully points out. Eric tsks. “What're you going as?”

“I was thinking like Halle Berry’s Catwoman.”

“You're not really gonna wear a leather catsuit to school.”

“Okay, maybe not. Oh my god,” He gasps with epiphany, “Do you think Maeve would be up for a group costume, I have _such_ a good idea!”

“Nope! No way! Absolutely not!”

“Come on, you gotta ask her, she'd love it!”

“Why’s it my job, it's your idea!”

“She might actually say yes if you ask her, dummy!”

He's right, naturally. Eric dresses as (a _modest_ ) Regina George, Otis comes around to liking the mouse ears, and Maeve terrifies everybody as Lindsay Lohan’s undead bride, complete with fake teeth. They actually have fun, and Eric thinks he must be hallucinating when Maeve gives him a big hug, but no, they're friends now, it’s official.

He ‘grams a selfie of the three of them, and within an hour it's got 35 likes and several comments:

 

> lilaimeeg: [heart eyes] looking good
> 
> galxxxygurl: hot
> 
> Jackson.marchetti: and none for gretchen weiners [crying laughing]
> 
> 20footiefan02: damn effong looking [fire]

 

Eric has no idea who that could be, and he flushes, even if they couldn’t spell his name right. He is a bad girl in heels, no doubt. It’s time people took notice.

“Dad,” He ventures the next day when they’re washing dishes, “What would you do if I had a boyfriend?” The plate falls into the sink, clattering for a long drawn out moment. His dad stares at him. “Okay,” Eric purses his lips, “So… not good?”

“I… Is there a boy you are seeing?” His dad asks, sounding like he’s dreading the answer.

“No! I don’t even like anyone!” He protests, too much. “This is all hypothetical! I’m just asking, like, would I be able to bring him ‘round? I wouldn’t want to keep secrets, yeah, but I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

His dad has that look, the drawn brows, slight frown; he’s sad, with himself.

“Your happiness could not make me unhappy, Eric. If you find a person you can love, they are welcome in my house, with—” He points one soapy finger at him, “Rules. Open door, at all times.”

“Dad, I already said, I’m not actually dating!”

“When you do have sex, you always use protection. I do not care if it is embarrassing, you come to me, and I shall provide condoms.”

“Oh my god, you’re killing me.”

“And your sisters will ask questions, and pester you, but you leave the explaining to me. I will set them right.”

Eric smiles upside down in a spoon. “Thanks, dad.”

 

* * *

 

Two months in he gets hazed for real.

Thursday before winter holiday, some bullshit that means he’s gotta endure his father for two whole weeks, the barracks are rowdy with pent up energy. Lights out at 2200 like always, but no one’s sleeping, and Adam stares at the underside of the top bunk and thinks of thunderstorms and his mother singing and Madam’s warm weight but nothing works. One by one, guys get out of bed and pad to the latrines, and they don’t come back. Something’s up, and Adam hasn’t got a clue, but what else is new. The mounted clock ticks on, his bladder constricts, and he waits until he thinks he’ll piss the bed to get up. The hall is empty, he watches the shadows, listens while he pisses for some intruder, but everything goes smooth. He lets himself relax just a bit as he leaves the latrine, which is when they get him.

Hands wrench his arms back and drag him. Adam struggles and only succeeds in straining his shoulders. They, at least three guys, pull him into a dimly lit room, the chairs and desks pushed against the walls. The rest of the barracks are there, some perched on the desks looming down like gargoyles, cheering as Adam is thrown into the center of the circle.

“What the fuck,” He rams himself into two of the guys closest to the door, but they wrestle him back, “Fuck off, lemme out, arsehole!”

“Chill out, rat, it’s not a gangbang!” Someone calls from atop a desk, and he’d know who it is if he’d bothered learning anyone’s name.

Another says, “It’s tradition.”

“I still think you should fuck off!”

The door opens again, and those same three guys are thrusting another cadet into the circle. He’s bigger than Adam, and he has this expression like he knows what’s going on, and is playfully protesting. The guy sizes him up and laughs, and Adam’s hackles rise.

“Not much of a match, what’s the point?” He asks the assembled crowd, riling them like a gladiator.

Adam’s dumb, but he’s not this dumb. “You pricks serious? It’s a fucking fight club? I’m out, I’m not doing this, get your rocks off with somebody else.”

“Billy-no-mates thinks he’s got a choice!”

“You fight, or you take on all of us!”

His opponent breaks his moral dilemma neatly by throwing the first punch. Adam dodges, years of practice ducking from highball glasses, and it’s instinct to come back with a left hook. Part of their drills involve boxing, so the other guy retaliates, and the surrounding cadets cheer. They’re so loud, there’s no way the Sergeants and officers are missing this; it’s tradition, one of them said, apparently one honored by their COs.

The other guy has powerful fists. A one-two gets him in the face, and his ears erupt in church bells. He can’t see out his left eye, and misses blocking a body shot because of it. So Adam goes low and grapples him round the middle. It tough but he wrestles the guy to the floor, and he doesn’t hesitate to punch him right in the face, over, and over, and over.

For the second time that evening a multitude of hands grab him and tug him back. It’s a pointless battle and he finds himself on the floor, face up, staring at the grotty ceiling. A bubble rises in his throat, so he turns his aching head and spits out a bloody lump.

He hears a rumble of appreciation, from too many voices, culminating in, “Damn, the freak’s got moves.”

Adam wakes to the reville tucked into his own bunk. Last night could be a dream if not for his split lip, black eye, and the deep purple bruise along his ribs. The Sergeant says nothing about it at first formation, not even advising him to go to the infirmary, and Adam realizes this is a test, just like any other. He goes through drills, his squats, his push ups and pull ups, his wind sprints, and a familiar anger keeps him upright through the pain. Instead of dinner, there’s a line of cars outside the main gate, and the cadets file out in rigid formation. It’s showy, proof to the parents that their money is well-spent.

He’s waiting for the look on his dad’s face, shock at his injuries fading to disappointment, a grim acceptance that Adam would never change. Instead, when the family car comes around, it’s his mother’s face staring out the windshield. She doesn’t seem to recognize him, keeps sweeping her gaze over the clean-cut boys with fresh faces, and Adam steels himself. He steps up and knocks on the window. His mum jumps.

“Move over,” He tells her. Mum hates to drive long distances. He doesn’t want to imagine the argument his parents must’ve had over who’d have to pick him up. The depth of his father’s disdain for him is made clear by her presence.

Startled, mum shifts over, and Adam slides into the driver’s seat. It won’t be easy, driving with a swollen left eye, but he can spare her this, if nothing else.

 

* * *

 

The skies were clear when he went to the Groffs' house, with a story about returning some of Aimee’s things, and Mrs. Groff told him Adam was out. Confirmation, at least, that the rumors were true. The rain started when he biked past the riverbank, one of the only places he knew Adam hung out at apart from school, no luck. Honestly, he was giving up, his hands were frozen to the handlebar, when the bus stop came into view with one lone occupant huddled under its shelter. His bike slides to a slow stop across the glossy pavement.

Adam looks… different. Maybe it’s the way he’s got his knees pulled up to his chest, resting his back against a large knapsack, that makes him seem small. His head is down and Eric can see that telltale buzzcut. Eric walks the bike to the bus stop, and sees the moment Adam realizes he’s not alone. His shoulders tense, and he turns his head just enough to glance sidelong, and when he recognizes Eric his eyes widen.

“Alright?” Eric greets him, voice shaking, and he laughs a little as he ducks under the bus stop. “It’s freezing, eh?”

Adam blinks at him. He uncoils his body, sets his feet on the ground, and moves so there’s space for another person on the bench. The opening is a good sign though Eric won’t take it yet.

Quiet, blank, Adam says, “What’re you doing here, tromboner?” Eric hasn’t heard that nickname in months; he certainly hasn’t missed it.

It’s not really an answer, but, “Maeve said she heard you were back for winter hols. Are you heading out already?”

Adam looks away, down the road, and is silent for so long, Eric nearly rethinks his decision to build this bridge. At last, “I’m going to London.”

Glancing at the stuffed bag, Eric thinks he knows what that means. “Oh,” He says faintly. He falls onto the cold bench beside Adam and everything he values in the world. Stumbling over his words, he asks, “Are you sure about this? I mean, Adam, isn’t that, like, going AWOL, or something? You’ve still got months until you turn 18, can’t you get caught for truancy, is that a thing?”

Adam has his thumbnail between his teeth, chewing, and he mutters around it, “What do you care? Thought you’d be fucking glad to see the back of me.”

Eric stares at the side of his head. “Okay,” He announces loudly, startling Adam a little, “Turn around, we’re going to sit back to back.” Adam’s brows go low and confused. “No, listen, it’s a thing, Otis told me about it, it helps communication. So you face that way, we sit back to back, and then we just air this shit out, got it?”

“Sounds gay.”

“So was sucking my dick, Adam, you owe me this.” It’s a gamble, and for a second his bravery falters, and the urge to run is so strong. Adam holds his gaze, sighs, and turns. Letting out a breath, Eric turns as well, and they line up back to back. Immediately he can’t help but notice how strong the other boy is; it’s like metal beneath skin and denim.

Soft, nearly inaudible under the rainfall, Adam asks, “What do you want me to say?”

A wealth of questions well up, and suddenly Eric has no idea how to begin. “How’s military school?”

“Shite,” Adam replies with clear confusion, “Or I wouldn’t be leaving, would I?”

Eric says, “Right,” and can’t think of what to say next. They listen to the rustling leaves and the curtain of water separating them from the rest of the world.

To his surprise, it’s Adam who breaks the quiet. “How’s Moordale?”

“Yeah, it’s good. I finally get to eat my lunch, it’s real weird, man.” He hears a huffed chuckle at that. “You’re not missing much, everything pretty much the same. No matter who’s dating who, who’s having sex, who’s _pretending_ they’re having sex, you know, it doesn’t totally change.”

“Are you,” Adam says, each syllable somewhat jerky as it leaves his mouth, “dating?”

“What? No. I’m still one of only two openly gay guys at school. Well, Jason from the footie team came out as bi when he got caught giving a handjob to a bloke behind the dumpsters, and Lily insists I’ve got a shot there, but I’m not really feeling it.” There’s no response, and Eric wishes he knew what face Adam’s making. Maybe Otis was full of b.s. afterall. “Anyway, it’s not… I think about detention a lot.” Another long silence. “I’ve got no idea where it came from, you know? I thought, well, a few things, like that you hated me, you were obsessed with Aimee, so…”

“Yeah,” Adam mutters.

When nothing else seems forthcoming, Eric prods, “That’s not an answer, Adam!”

“S’not really a question. Where’d it come from? Fuck if I know.” He feels Adam shake his head. “Yeah, I was obsessed with Aimee. I wanted to be good at something, instead I fucked up being a boyfriend, and I couldn’t get why. And, yeah, maybe I…” Adam shifts, warm and solid, and Eric breathes in. “You said it, tromboner, I’m a loser nobody wants.”

Sadly, “Adam…”

“I lost my girlfriend, I lost my friends, I lost my fucking dog… And you were always there, taking up space, making me look at you.”

“Well, I’m so-o-orry—”

“Shut up, I liked it,” snaps Adam, “If I looked at you, you looked at me back.” There’s so much to unpack there, so much more Adam could elaborate on, and instead he clams up. He doesn’t really need to, Eric gets what goes unsaid.

Despite the empathy he feels for the other boy right then, Eric confesses, “You got worse. You got really horrible, Adam. You put dog shit on my dad’s car. I mean, for four years you’ve been pushing me into lockers and taking my money, but you never threatened to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t—” Rushes out of Adam in one breath that chokes off.

“I didn’t think you would.” It’s hard, to say this here, where it started. “There was this night, my birthday, actually. I was dressed in costume, walking alone, and this car came up next to me, started taking the piss… They beat me up and spat on me.” Adam makes a sound, sort of a sigh, sort of a hiss, that he can’t decipher. “I couldn’t fight back then, so when you started up again, I told myself I’d stand up to you, at least. But I don’t think you’re really like them, those guys, not really.” A secret lifted from his shoulders, Eric laughs a little. “You’re only the third person I’ve told about that.”

“You came into school, hoodie, jeans,” replies Adam, with a strange note of bitterness, “You went back in the closet and ended up looking like me…”

“See,” Eric bursts out, feeling Adam jolt, “This is what I mean, yeah? None of the teachers said anything, not ‘til I went mental and punched Anwar. But you noticed something was up straight away. We notice each other, Adam, we’ve got…” The wind leaves his sails as the rumble of wheels herald the bus’ approach, “Something.”

The bus pulls up and shudders to a stop. The doors open with a release of air. Adam stays unmoving. The driver waits, while Eric counts to twelve, then gives up. The doors close and the escape to London rolls along.

“You shouldn’t want anything to do with me, Eric,” He gasps at his own name, unheard in Adam’s voice before, “I’m your fucking nightmare, ain’t I? You a masochist or something? I can’t be that good at giving head, obviously, I’d never done it before. Whatever you think this is, it’s not. I can’t give you anything worth shit. I’m too fucking scared to hold your hand...”

Eric can’t stand it any longer. He turns around, and Adam jumps at the sudden change, and Eric cradles his sharp cheekbones in his palms and kisses him again and again and _again_ until Adam is pressing him back into the bench. They’re exposed to the air, to the world, and Eric can’t care about anything except getting as close to him as possible.

“Don’t threaten me this time,” Eric breathes into the prickly short hair above Adam’s ear.

He grunts, “I told you, I wouldn’t,” and bites the juncture of Eric’s jaw. He’s hard, they both are, and when Adam jerks his hips against his, Eric sees stars.

“Fuck, fuck,” He reels Adam in for a kiss, as tender as their first, “Let’s get out of the rain.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'll continue this into an ongoing story. I have a lot more to say, about all the characters, but especially Eric and Adam. I understand a lot of people are disturbed by this pairing because of their problematic history. I agree it's problematic, and that's one reason why it's fascinating for me to explore in fiction. I think there's a lot of potential for growth in both of these characters, and I'm excited to see how they develop (separately and/or together) in season 2.


End file.
